


Once More, Into The Knight

by superdupersunny



Category: Batman: Arkham Asylum, Batman: Arkham City
Genre: Gen, omitk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superdupersunny/pseuds/superdupersunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Though Batman has left the grounds of Arkham City, the night isn’t over. Damian’s sent in to “clean up”, regarding the mission his father has assigned him a chore. However, he stumbles onto a much sinister plan at the hands of a foe though beaten. Set after the events of Batman: Arkham City, what transpires shall change the dynamic of the Bat Clan forever…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More, Into The Knight

Wayne Manor always gave illusions of perfection, and even its more honest reflection, The Cave, did too. Material-wise, at least, because glimmering metal, polished wood, and soft fabrics couldn’t cover up everything. A combination of Alfred’s zero-tolerance policy on dust and dirt as well as Bruce’s more perfectionist (though he preferred the “if it works then it works” policy just as well) tendencies kept the place gleaming and all instruments of various uses running like a charm. But in their little world, imperfection was everywhere. Children playing dress-up drafted into a war, becoming veterans before reaching their 18th year. Torn and bloodied costumes, proof of plans gone awry, displayed in mock glory. Memento’s of madness displayed like decorative or mildly interesting pieces of modern art. These were the obscure, lurid places that were unspoken about. The dark corners of the hero’s life.

But some types of imperfection were comforting. After all, cracks have a purpose too. 

They’re how the light gets in.

***

It wasn’t as if the keyboard was worn, god-knows how much money was dedicated to the behemoth that was the Bat-Computer. But it certainly gave impressions of use. Or maybe she was simply going insane, thought Barbara Gordon (who liked to indulge in this half-hearted explanation often). However, after all this time, after all its use and after all the fingers that touched it, the various buttons were no longer stiff as they were in the earlier days of The Oracle. Neither was she, respectively. Harder. But not stiffer. Since all the fingers that had touched and used the device, leaving lingering imprints of all those hands’ memories, it was almost as if the keys had gone soft.

As the days went by and Oracle adjusted to her role, something strange happened. Something she’d never talk about nor notice, much, consciously. Perhaps the notion would slip and slide, merge and jostle into those moments part-waking and part-dreaming no one could really remember but other than that, she didn’t think about it. 

It was...the music. The different keys gave off different sounds when brushed, tapped, and hammered upon. Each character wasn’t unique in its sounds, no, but some were. Certain types of words and coding and command and sentences gave off their own recurring little melodies. These could change vastly into alien sounds when hit harder, softer, faster, slower—and so on. But it made music, and if your ears tried hard enough, they could catch the patterns. 

So as she thrived and grew into her new role, Barbara Gordon became a maestro of symbols in a way she wasn’t aware of. Her fingers, slender and calloused, skipped over and danced in fluid motions that were unnecessary. The pale digits would move here, there, and over each other, hitting each key in ways that produced certain ‘notes’. Long, smoothly transitioning and winding ballads born out of commands over machinery would reassure her ears. Pitterly pattering, softly-solid beats would accompany the slower nights. Passionate flurries and smashing would give her some anchor to hold onto during perspiration-inducing, straining missions. Sometimes, new symphonies could be composed for special moments and other times, the redhead would produce fresh ones for her furry-haired and flying company. Perhaps it took miniscule nanoseconds longer to reach each key in these unorthodox movements but she didn’t care. Well, rather, she didn’t notice and she didn’t know. Only moments of vague confusion would bother her when she found herself out of the cave, drumming a melody she didn’t recognize.

But another thing Barbara Gordon did not grasp yet was that Oracle would be orchestrating her greatest piece yet.

***

//:connection established__

>>vehicle1087; codename “batwing” identified__

//:operative; codename “damianwayne” identified__

//:location; codename “arkhamcity” identified__

//:deploy; “damianwayne”

//:select; command ...

y/n?

***

The darkness seemed soft, and comforting, brushing up against his eyes, ears, face, body—everything. The silence pressing against his ears while the smooth shadows enveloped and squeezed him. Damian was unnaturally still, the shakes and rumbles occasionally plaguing The Batwing having no effect on him. The young boy sat cross-legged, in a meditative stance as he reviewed his suit and gear’s conditions for the third time. Temperature was fine. Mask displayed all appropriate intel and could easily switch through different vision modes. Cape didn’t get in the way. Belt was snug. The proposition that any of the advanced Wayne gear falling short was mostly absurd, small window of failure aside, but the repetition was comforting. Other than that, his mind would verve off and into a flurry of conflicting thoughts and emotions that he dare not tread. He wasn’t use to this feeling and he didn’t know how to cope, quite unlike the missions he was accustomed to. Though multiple scenarios, problems, angles and view-points were nothing new to him. He should have laid out the issues carefully, examining and resolving each before rolling them up and tucking the temporary solutions or stances concerning them in a snug compartment within his mind for quick reference. Instead, he observed the way the very small window strips above the exit and entrance slides and how the fleeting, thin beams of light would catch on the whites of his suit. Inhaling deeply, comforted by the inner movements of his working organs—the fleshy throbbing and pulsing networks intricately working within him, he cleared his mind. Yes, this was a waste of talent. Yes, he was far superior to the “fake” son in terms of both physical and mental capabilities but somehow, his father didn’t see it. But then, to be fair to the mythic vision of perfection his mother had carved into his skull, they had never worked together. At least, not yet. No, he was not the same man his mother had loved but he knew his father had potential, just potential inhibited by the company and rules he surrounded himself with. It was no matter, though this was a humiliating use of his skills, it was one step closer to earning Batman’s respect and thereby one movement closer to working with him. Then, he could at last begin his old man’s rehabilitation. It disturbed Damian, though, because if his father of all people could lose his edge, did that apply to everyone else...? No, the fools he surrounded himself with just reinforced his delusions, it wasn’t his father’s fault per say but regardless, he had to be accountable on some level for losing his touch. The notion, even so small, that his father had chinks in his armour left a bitter taste in the boy’s mouth. No matter, the mission was all that mattered, at the moment.

Rising, slowly, with practised dignity, Damian relaxed himself and stretched his arms and limbs leisurely within the dark to loosen up. Becoming hyper-aware of his own size and the very movements within his muscles and bones in proximity to his surroundings, he grinned at his sheer potential. A soft, dull, emerald light began blinking on his forearm, alerting him it was time. The less verbal contact with them, the better. He made his way over to the pod Batman used to deploy items of necessity from the Batwing, a subtle but clearly understood insult. He growled, “This is humiliating...” A voice clear enough to seem to come from somewhere beside him mused, “Mm, the mission or the pod?” Damian’s nostrils flared slightly, “Oracle, if I want your professional opinions then I’ll ask for them. As it stands, I was referring to both but my crate in particular. Perhaps FedEx would’ve been subtler.” Barbara snorted into the communication feed, “The pod’s safe and there’s no chance of one of Batman’s...allies being spotted. If we’re lucky, it might seem like he’s still around to creep the ghouls out.” Damian ignored her as he clambered upon the vessel, her arguments having no sway on him, buckling the protective straps and belts around him. “I know how to jump out of a plane, cripple, so your patronisation is just as unneeded as your unhelpful input. If this is supposed to be a covert mission then ‘creeping the ghouls’ out is besides the point; I get in there, I do my errands without being seen, I get out. Is this how he always punishes his other brats? With chores?” An interesting sensation shoots through Damian as he’s deployed, like an invisible string slowly pulled along his core. “First, you will treat me and the other members of our operation with respect if you want any back. Second, it’s not a chore and even if it was, you’re lucky Bruce is letting you anywhere outside the mansion, let alone a mission. Final point, you talk too much for your age.” Damian yelled back as the pod made hard contact with the world outside, “If you want my respect, you’ll have to earn it!” Silence, then a snort. “So sayeth the ten year old...”

***

Barbara Gordon let out one of her long, therapeutic sighs. Damian was exhausting to deal with and though she didn’t trust him for a second, she pitied the young boy (most empathy on her part was contribution from Alfred). Tim and Dick never gave her this much trouble. Well, maybe they did sometimes but at least their mistakes were rare and punctuated with both good intentions, and memorable puns. But Damian was steel and rage, he was dangerous and she knew she had to keep an eye on him. Besides, ableist bullshit was not to be tolerated anywhere, especially within their community of all places. So she pitied him, because his inability to relate to and communicate with people respectfully screwed any of his chances to earn Bruce’s approval though he did have a knack for wanting to “fix” people. A familiar voice vibrated through the cave as Alfred made his way down towards the Batcomputer: “I trust all goes well with you, Miss Gordon, and the young master?” The redhead smiled lightly for the first time that night and turned over to face him, “I’ve known you since I was a kid Alfie, Barbara’s just fine.” The butler crinkled his eyes in reflecting her smile, placing both of his hands on her shoulder reassuringly with some amusement. “True, but it’s the senility, I’m afraid, because you’ll all be young misses and misters to me.” The edges of Oracle’s lips widened momentarily before she turned around to face the various panels streaming in video feeds, date, etc. “To answer your question...I don’t know, Alfred. This kid genuinely worries me a little. He-he called me a cripple, Alfred. He’s quick to judge and even quicker to react, violence inherent in his system. A part of me just wants to tolerate him as best I can and get this mess done with so Bruce can deal with him but...another part of me wonders if I can help him, because Alfred—this kid needs help, like he really needs help.” The ancient man solemnly considered her before etching a brave smile on his visage, “Master Damian...holds everyone to a certain unachievable and unrealistic standard, Miss Gordon. Specifically that of a rather hyper-idealized notion involving his mother and father, the former actually raising him. With that in mind, you can see how he might regard others as...lesser.” The pause in the conversation sinked in Alfred’s words, which Barbara’s sharply keen mind had already filed away for future use whilst she considered their meaning’s potential consequence in her and Damian’s future interactions. She mumbled, “I can see that alright, doesn’t mean I want to understand it...” A testament to the conundrum that was Talia’s spawn as Barbara had a talent, and sometimes need, for comprehension. “Would you like my company, Miss? I think I’ll tidy the cave up for a bit. The dinosaur appears far too dusty for my comfort...” Barbara barely heard her friend over the clattering of the keyboard, organising Damian’s “agenda” textually. “Hm? No, no Alfie—I’m good. Besides, I think Bruce needs you more right now.” The bespectacled woman gulped as something hard formed in her throat and her mind; Oh god, no one’s told him about Talia yet...

“To be honest Miss Gordon, I think Master Wayne just wants to be alone at the moment after everything that’s just transpired, but if you insist, I’ll be off. Good luck, Barbara.”

And as his steps echoed and faded away, the familiar company of bright screens and singing keys returned. And for a moment, another therapeutic sigh is needed.

***

Damian held his hands behind his back as he paced atop the Ace Chemical building, where his father truly began his journey into the night. His eyes surveyed the sights of the city, not out of appreciation for aesthetics necessarily, but rather to begin a preliminary study of its layout, rules, and atmosphere. He organized his mission into a bullet point system, mentally. Then he had to consider the fact the whole area was now in disarray as Joker’s thugs were confused, fleeting, joining the other gangs or dividing up into their own factions. The police were swarming all over the place to combat the madness, and these social factors had to be taken into account with time management and resources. He would leave the police to try to contain the cowardice of the scum running away, instead focusing on the mission. Damian drew his grapple gun and fired at a higher vantage point, bending his knees before zipping towards the chimney of a decaying brick building. He released the end of the line, the high-tensile wire reeling back into the gun he holstered, unfurling his cobalt para-cape to safely glide and land onto the narrow chimney, balancing on its edge. The winter air hurt to inhale deeply, uncoiling within him and alighting his lungs on fire. The suit kept his body temperature warm and Damian pulled his hood around him, slightly unnerved. He had trained in extreme climates yet there was something about the infamous Gotham winter that inadmittedly chilled him as well, like the city was trying to freeze you, inside out. He loosed a feral grin and sprung from his poised stance; he had dealt with the urban beast trying to crush him before and he would deal with it again.

He nose-dived, the air pushing up against his face, invisible arrows grazing his skin. He held tightly onto his cape as a rush of power surged through him. In any conflict, victory often hinged upon controlling the rules of engagement. When your opponent didn’t understand the parameters you enforced upon them, then success was imminent. As the distant ground became more of concrete reality, Damian’s grin became more pronounced; his life and death depended on him, and him solely. Touch me, I dare you, touch me because I am resolute, he thought. It didn’t matter what the city threw at him because whether he would end as a pathetic smear on the ground or whether he would flew into the night depended on solely him, and him alone. If he were to be bested in combat, it was fault and no one else’s--he had the power of life and death in his hands, the powers gods old and new boasted about but never demonstrated. His arms snapped out and the wind gusted under him, boosting him up into the frigid air. He controlled the rules of engagement, and most importantly, he knew how to break the rules. Enthralled, he scanned the cityscape like a predatory hawk as he glided towards a marked point on his mask’s mini-map, displayed in the upper-right corner of his vision. 

Suddenly, Oracle cut in since the last time they ‘talked’, “Damian! Change of plans, there’s been a robbery from the Sionis area that’s just been reported--a rampant gray van has been spotted around your vicinity. Keep a lookout, but find it and stop it ASAP if you can. I don’t think it’s money they were aiming for--” Damian cut her off as he spotted the described automobile wildly swing into the street he was gliding over. “I see them, don’t worry, I’ve got these idiots--” 

Pain exploded into Damian’s shoulder, ebbing away into his body as he careened against the force of the impact. Even through the receiver, Oracle could here the gunshot but could hardly make out Damian’s response, a soft “Ah...” The rules of engagement were only useful when you knew where your enemies were. And as a figure in the distance cocked the sniper once more, he knew exactly where his prey was.

Falling,

Falling.


End file.
